


The Trolley Problem

by cryptidhearted



Category: Everyman HYBRID, Marble Hornets
Genre: Gen, Other, different iteration, ethical dilemmas for unethical people, habit being gross as per usual, time travel (sort of), universe fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 12:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidhearted/pseuds/cryptidhearted
Summary: “Why are we in Alabama?”“Oh, y’know, thought we’d get some barbecue, boil some peanuts, fry some tomatoes—to kill the fucking thing, you idiot. Did you think I brought you here to pick some peaches? Go for a lovely stroll in the woods?”“You can stop.”“I’m not gonna.”Vin picks a leaf out of his hair and exhales sharply, glancing towards Habit as his vision clears. He can’t seem to focus on his compatriot, the features of its face blurring together messily into colors. Pale skin, deep purple smudges under eyes, but he can’t identify exactly who Habit is anymore, like his head’s rejecting any sort of theory he can bring up—“If you wanted to bring me to Alabama, I could’ve brought a plane ticket.”“Traveling my way is faster.”





	The Trolley Problem

**Author's Note:**

> there is no intentional harm to a child in this fic, but there is a lot of discussion about it, as well as a death at the end. this is essentially an experiment of dialogue and something that's been stuck in my head for a while.
> 
> is this a previous iteration? probably. does it make any sense? absolutely not. was this self indulgent as all fuck and an excuse to start figuring out how to write habit? you bet your fucking ass it is.
> 
> [find me on tumblr!](https://cryptidhearted.tumblr.com/)

“C’mon. Upsy daisy, Vinnie, we’ve got work to do.”

There’s a series of smacks against his cheeks, turning his head side to side as Vin struggles to open his eyes.

“Come _on,_ does a little bit of travel take that much out of you? You fuckin’ wimp, get _UP_—”

Another smack, this one sharper and harder and reminiscent of something almost like claws and Vin opens his eyes, sucking in a breath that stings his lungs and gasping it out, coughing hard as he jolts upright in the same instant.

“Good morning, darling.” Habit purrs, voice heavy with sarcasm and annoyance both.

“Where are we?” Vinnie says, in lieu of reply.

It’s—hot. Uncomfortably hot. He is sitting in something like a pile of vegetation, dead flora, crumbled leaves clinging to his clothes and some loose branch digging gently into his upper thigh. A glance up reveals the sunlight shining through the leaves, dappling the underbrush with white and green.

“A forest.” Habit replies, flatly.

“Yeah, picked up on that. A forest where?”

“Does it matter?”

“When you’re throwing me god only knows where, yeah.”

“Sounds like a you problem, Vin.” The response comes with a smirk full of ugly, sharp teeth, a flash of purple in familiar eyes and a tilt of Habit’s head. “I explained the whole thing. If you didn’t listen, that’s your own damn fault.” Vin pictures a flicker of a snake’s tongue between Habit’s lips and inhales sharply, reaching up to take his glasses off and rub at his eyes.

“You hear that?” Habit raises a finger as an indication to listen, interrupting any other thought process.

Vin holds his breath for a moment, and listens.

There’s a breeze through the trees. The summer heat feels like it’s clinging to his skin even as he’s simply sitting still where he is, and movement likely wouldn’t help that much. There’s a cicada screeching nearby, some distant buzzing of insects and some even more distant sound of a river, but closer than that is the sound of—children? Laughter and squeals, high-pitched, excited, and—

“Are we near a park?” Vin questions, looking back to Habit.

“Look at you, finally putting on your smarty-pants.” Habit’s sarcasm remains thick, but there’s some sense of approval underneath it. Vin resists the urge to roll his eyes and moves to stand up, brushing leaves off of his pants and breathing out slow against the sudden wave of dizziness.

“A park where, though?”

“Alabama.” Habit moves from its crouched position beside him, standing straight with a crackling sound that’s either leaves under its boots or the bones of its current host. A tongue swipes across sharp teeth.

“Why are we in Alabama?”

“Oh, y’know, thought we’d get some barbecue, boil some peanuts, fry some tomatoes—to kill the fucking thing, you idiot. Did you think I brought you here to pick some peaches? Go for a lovely stroll in the woods?”

“You can stop.”

“I’m not gonna.”

Vin picks a leaf out of his hair and exhales sharply, glancing towards Habit as his vision clears. He can’t seem to focus on his compatriot, the features of its face blurring together messily into colors. Pale skin, deep purple smudges under eyes, but he can’t identify exactly who Habit is anymore, like his head’s rejecting any sort of theory he can bring up—

“If you wanted to bring me to Alabama, I could’ve brought a plane ticket.”

“Traveling my way is faster.”

“Got it.”

The unrecognizable face twists into an undeniable smirk at Vin’s obvious discomfort, and though Vin can’t quite make out the look of amusement in Habit’s eyes, he knows it’s there.

“Besides,” and Habit purrs as it speaks, head tilted to one side and that wide smirk too wide even in Vin’s subconscious thought, “We’re nice and close to where we need to be.”

It gestures for him to follow, and Vin does.

It turns out that Habit wasn’t kidding when it explained that they were close by; it’s a grand total of five minutes of walking before the tree line, and even beyond that, the park is within view, and it’s busy. Vinnie stops and stands still, dimly aware of how suspicious it’d look for a man to emerge from the woods and stare at a park populated mostly with children and their parents, especially as he feels Habit slink up behind him and linger. The body is shorter than him. Habit’s head rests against his shoulder and it is the body’s temple leaning there, lazy, leisurely. He feels bony claws move up and down his arm. Testing for a place to break the skin.

It’s a bright, sunny day in Alabama. The sky is completely clear of clouds and the sun overhead is hot, but now outside of the trees there’s a comfortable breeze that keeps it from being oppressive. Sweat drips down his neck and he reaches back to scratch at it, careful to avoid jostling Habit too much as the other presses its face into his shoulder.

The park is populated by children and their parents.

Vinnie expects to see something terrible as the noise draws his attention, and yet, there is nothing.

It’s a wooden playset and at this point in the day Vin knows on reflex that it’ll be warmed enough to be uncomfortable, but not unbearable. It sparks memories, somewhere in the back of his head, something half-remembered and half-understood, three other friends chasing him around a sandbox—Habit’s sharp and bony claws dig into his arm.

“Focus on the moment, here, Vinnie. No drifting off. You’re fuckin’ useless with your head in the clouds, man.”

“Got it.”

It’s not empty, and he’s guessing it’s a weekend, because it feels like it’s only mid-afternoon but there’s plenty of parents and children. He sees an older woman and who he guesses is her husband sitting on a bench under a tree as a younger child— their grandchild, maybe? —presents them with some object that Vin can’t identify from this distance. Near the slide is a younger woman he’d guess to be early twenties at the latest with her hands on the back and stomach of a young boy, not older than three. Somewhere near the monkey bars a man is helping his daughter climb back up, and among all of them is the excited squeals of children happy to be playing with each other, kids with not a care in the world, give or take the occasional genuine shriek of displeasure that comes with someone being jostled too hard by a friend.

“Whatcha see, Vin?” Habit purrs, hot breath against his ear, and Vinnie furrows his brows, breathing out slow.

“It’s just… kids. Kids and their parents.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s so important about the park?”

“C’mon, you know how that thing works.”

“Yeah, but these are—” Vin pauses, looks around. It’s idyllic. Peaceful. This isn’t the right environment. “These kids are too young for it to do anything with, right? They need to be… teenagers, or something. That’s what all the stories are.”

“Stories aren’t always correct, y’know.” Habit replies with a scoff. “You fillin’ your head with bullshit again?”

“Can you stop insulting me and explain what we’re here for already?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Habit’s claws sink deeper into his arm and Vinnie is dimly aware of how close it is to breaking the skin as the body leans in closer and closer to him. He doesn’t need to look to know the teeth are bared, the eyes narrowed, the tongue peeking slightly out— “Parents don’t matter here. Look at the kids.”

“Why.” It’s not a question. It’s an annoyed statement.

Habit’s reply is an exaggerated sigh, followed by claws breaking the skin on Vin’s wrist.

“What year is it, Vinnie?”

“Er… 1990.”

“Got a month lying around somewhere?”

“Not really.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway. Trivia.” The claws are ripped away from him. The wound doesn’t hurt, though Vin knows it should. “You lookin’ at the kids, yet?”

“I’m looking at the kids.”

“Great. You see the one on the slide?”

“The one with the lady with him?”

“Yeah. That’s the one.” Something odd has crept into Habit’s voice, something that stirs Vinnie from his obedient haze only slightly, his eyes drifting to the faceless formless creature clinging to his side, arm through his own. “You watchin’ him?”

Vinnie’s eyes move away from the unknowable Habit and towards the slide.

The features of the child are hard to make out from here, but Vin can see black hair. A blue shirt, little khaki shorts. His mother, or babysitter, whoever the woman is, is wearing a lovely sundress, her red hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. He watches the two of them, her moving with her son and helping him go down the big kid slide, to smile at him and hug him at the bottom—to lead him back to the ladder so he can do it again, and when he squeals every time Vinnie feels something tight in his chest.

There’s something lovely about an excited child. A picture of innocence, genuine excitement, something that doesn’t understand there’s danger out in the world or doesn’t care for what they’ve learned in the first place and now Vin is starting to think he’s sort of getting a handle on why the sensation of dread hovering over his shoulders hasn’t disappeared.

“What’s he matter for?”

“That’s the problem.” Habit’s grip on him is tight and Vinnie is aware of the fact claws have broken his skin. He feels blood at his arm, and his ribcage, and is thankful that his shirt is dark enough to hide any kind of stain that might be a problem. “He matters in the first place.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t get a lot of shit, Vin. You know this kid?”

“If I did you wouldn’t have to tell me.”

Habit snorts. It seems pleased with him, at least a little bit—or Vin might be imagining that, some part of him still desperate for approval of the host even when he knows—when he knows it’s not—can’t be—

His head hurts.

“That little boy is the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet.” Habit says, dryly, its voice holding something between humor and disgust that is impossible to identify and would still make Vinnie uncomfortable even if he knew what to call it. “Turned three a couple months ago. His Ma’s single. All on her own. Hard life, getting knocked up by somebody who breezes right outta town when they find out, huh?” It chuckles, and Vinnie’s eyes remain on the woman and child.

The boy stops at the bottom of the slide, beaming up at his mother as she kneels in front of him. She gestures towards the bench at the side of the playscape and pets his head, her gesture gentle and soft and he hugs her tight before she stands up, brushes herself off, and then leans down to pick him up. The boy clings tight to her dress, to her hair, a grip tight enough to risk tearing something, like he’s scared to let go.

“He’s not ready for school yet, but he’s smart as a whip, according to his Ma. His favorite color is red and his favorite animal is his neighbor’s dog because he really wants one of his own. When he grows up he wants to be a musician.” Habit’s arm moves lazily up and down Vinnie’s again, temple against his shoulder, and Vinnie feels it pressing nearer to him. Affectionate, almost. His throat burns. “He’s also the single most important person in existence, right now.”

“What?”

“What?” Habit mimics and rolls its eyes. “Ears open. He’s the most important person in all of existence today. That little three-year-old matters more than you or any other human being on this planet right now.”

“Why?”

“The easiest way to explain that is to tell you it’s real close to him.” Habit reaches up, tapping a slightly bloody, bony claw against his cheekbone. “The harder way needs more metaphors than I’m gonna bother comin’ up with just cos you’re stupid.”

Vinnie’s eyes shift, his gaze moving towards the figure that is Habit as the finger lingers there long enough that there’s a moment of concern it’ll sink into his eyesocket. It doesn’t, though, Habit withdrawing its offending digit and swiping its tongue across it before it detaches itself from Vin, crossing its arms over its chest and he really, really wishes he could remember who this host was.

“So why bring us here?” Vin asks another question, and feels foolish as he does, because he knows Habit’s just going to take the opportunity to antagonize. “Is it going to come after him?”

“Something like that.” Habit scratches lazily at its ruined face. “You ever take an ethics class?”

The question catches him off guard, and Vin pauses to find the kid and his red-headed mother. They’ve settled on a bench in the shade, and she’s pulled something or other out of her purse, opening a juice box and a package of something or other before she hands them to him, and the boy kicks his feet beside her.

“I… uh, think so.” Vinnie answers, after a moment’s pause and trying to remember. “First couple of college semesters. We read Nietzsche.”

“Boring.”

“Yeah.”

“You familiar with the trolley problem, Vinnie?”

“Yeah.” Vin pulls his eyes away from the woman and child as she pulls the boy into her lap, watching her wrap her arms around the child, who squirms and protests but leans into his mother nonetheless. “It’s the one on the tracks.”

“You’re standing on a bridge next to a lever, above some train tracks.” Habit says. It gestures to the area around them. Vin doesn’t interrupt, though he knows the explanation. “On the tracks are six people. On one side, five people, on the other side is one person. The lever decides which side of the tracks the train goes down. Your options are don’t pull the lever and let five people die or pull the lever and kill one person.”

“That’s how it goes, yeah.”

“So what do you do?”

“Pull the lever.”

“You humans never change your answers. Especially not you whole high-and-mighty types. I would’ve thought you of all people would just walk away.” Habit’s smiling at him, something genuine and amused and malicious despite itself, all sharp and bloody teeth and bile and Vin thinks the host is going to keel over sooner rather than later, at this point, but he sorely wishes it wouldn’t. “That the final answer? Pull the lever?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“I just made it real obvious, you still not following?”

“No.”

Habit’s reply is a sigh, something theatric and exaggerated and a hand rests on the center of Vinnie’s chest, digging claws into fabric and curling into a slow fist and Vinnie thinks he might be about to get something important ripped out.

“C’mon, you’ve heard that stupid ethical dilemma, moral questionnaire, whatever the fuck, almost every year of your life at some point. And you, lovely, pragmatic you,” Habit drags him down closer to its face and its rancid breath warms his cheeks, “Lovely, selfish, pragmatic you, you’d pull the lever. It’s real obvious, isn’t it? Pull the lever, save five people. Kill one and wear that weight on your soul like a medal. How hard could it be?” And it smiles at him, tilts its head forward so their foreheads almost touch. A purple flash in the mist that is the host’s face.

Vin lifts his hands to Habit’s arms. Blunt nails curl into bare arms and he tries to remember what the host body was wearing when they left, but he can’t. He can’t even remember where they left from. Habit’s words are sinking into his skull like a hot knife dragged through butter and his stomach feels sick, because he almost understands, and wishes he didn’t.

He says nothing.

“You’d still be responsible for the death of one person if you pulled the lever, y’know. Could be the trolley driver or the dumbshit on the track who walked his way onto it and didn’t step off when he heard the horn. Could be workers who were on repair and whoever planned the trolley routes fucked it up today. But you change the tracks. You save five lives and end one. Right? That’s how it works?”

Vinnie does not reply.

“C’mon. Talk to me or I’ll make you talk. I know you’re thinking. I can hear the grinding and see the smoke.”

Vinnie’s fingers dig harsher into Habit’s host and the creature chuckles at him as it pulls itself away, as effortlessly as if he was brushing away a moth. Vin is grinding his teeth, and he knows it, but as Habit removes itself, he steps forward with it regardless and looks past the playscape and the sandbox and the pieces of empty field to the mother with the child in her lap.

“An hour from now the world is going to end.” Habit says, almost lazily. “An hour from now the sun sets and doesn’t rise again and you’re perfectly capable of stopping that, grand old incredible you. So you’re going to do it, because you’re the hero in this morality play.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You can pretend you don’t, but I know you do.”

The woman is leaning back against the bench and the boy has squirmed out of her lap. He sits next to her on the ground, playing with some twig or set of leaves and glancing up at her intermittently before looking back towards the playscape. Vin can imagine the pout on his face, imagine the eagerness in the child—he wants to go play more, but his Ma won’t come play with him, so he’s excited, but uncertain. He won’t ask, because he doesn’t have the words or can’t conceive a yes, but he still wants to—Vinnie thinks his Ma must know this, because she looks down at him and reaches to pet his hair and gestures towards the slide again, says something neither of them hear but that makes the child very happy to hear. He picks himself up and drops his stick and bolts for the slide.

Habit presses something into Vinnie’s hand.

“It’s not hard.” The voice says, near his ear, as Vinnie looks down to the sharpened knife and the emblazoned sigil burned into the hilt. Habit’s standing on tiptoe to rest its chin on his shoulder. “Just a kid. You don’t even have to be mean about it. One little paper cut would be enough. Granted, it’ll still hurt like a bitch, so if you’re real mean about it it’ll probably take the little tyke out quicker.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not doing that.”

“You don’t get it, do you.”

“I’m not killing a child, Habit. It’s not—It’s not happening. I can’t do that. I won’t. Never.”

“You_ really_ don’t get it, do you?”

“I won’t.”

“You’re fucking _thick_—” and Habit is snarling, baring teeth at him, more uncomfortable crackling of bones and gurgling of organs as it shifts away from him and the knife and jabs him harshly in the side. “I’ll pull the lever,” It mocks him, high-pitched and whiny, “No hesitation, I’ll pull the lever, kill one and save five—save fifty—save five-hundred—save five-thousand— No?” It drops on the last syllable and jabs him harshly again. “How many would it take? Do I gotta fucking explain the whole thing to you before you realize how much this matters?”

“Nothing you could say would justify_ that_—”

“No, because even when I’m trying to help you don’t get it, you don’t listen, and you still think you’re in the right.”

“I _am!_”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Vinnie’s grip on the hilt of the knife tightens. His throat closes and his eyes burn and he hears the excited squeal and laugh of the boy reaching the end of the slide. The heat around them feels like it’s sticking now, sweat down the back of his neck and soaking into his shirt. It could be blood. He’s not sure. Did Habit sink its claws into his throat? He does not speak, but Habit seems to have no trouble filling the rest of the empty noise.

“You got less than an hour to kill the kid or see the stick in the mud emerge from his head, fully formed, like Athena fuckin’ ripping her way out of Zeus’ skull. That good enough for you? That get the message across?”

“It’s from—it’s--?”

“Yeah. It’s from him. From that cute little boy. Three years old and he’s the sweet little thing that’s going to lead to the deaths of all your friends, all his friends, and anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That do enough for you, Vin? Feel noble about it yet?”

“You’re lying.”

“The fuck do I gain by lying about a toddler being the demise of all humanity? I thought you’d be grateful for the heads up.”

“He’s three! What the hell is he gonna do, accidentally summon a monster--?”

“That’s basically how it works, here, Vin, I really thought you’d—”

“I’m not going to kill a child!”

“What, that’s where you draw the line? Really?”

There’s a prickle in the air, suddenly, that stops both of them in their tracks. Habit pauses, tilts its head up and sniffs at the air like a dog, breathing deep and exhaling slowly and then looking at Vin more seriously, gesturing towards the knife in his hand.

“You don’t have a lot of time to choose, Vinnie.” It says to him, flatly, and Vin feels his hands shake. “You’re going to have to if you want to win.”

“Why—Why can’t you? You’ve—done that kind of thing before,” He feels like he’s going to vomit, bile burning his throat and turning his stomach, like he’ll double over and puke his lunch and his breakfast and every last one of his insides, spit up viscera for his compatriot to poke through for a snack. “Why me?”

Habit gives him a smile full of sharp teeth.

“Because you’re the one who has to make the decision.” Habit purrs. A cool breeze runs through the foliage, drying the sweat on the back of Vinnie’s neck. Like the temperature has dropped slightly, enough to be noticeable, not enough to be odd. “You’re the one who stands to gain from this. Gain everything from this, too. Why should I do your job for you?”

Vin looks down at the knife in his trembling hand and feels drool gather in his mouth, precursor, indicator—

“No,” He says again, sharper. “I won’t.”

“Do you know how many people that kid’s gonna kill, all by himself? How many makes pulling the lever worth it?”

“I won’t do it, Habit.”

“He’s gonna lead directly to the deaths of four people, by his own interventions. Bumps up to seven by proxy. That enough, yet?”

“I won’t.”

“He’s gonna carry an infection all his life that’s gonna rot him from the inside out. He’ll make his friends sick. He’ll make his lovers sick and sicker every time he’s near them. He’ll lead them right to their deaths whether he wants to or not—That make it easier, Vin? If I call it a mercy killing? Cutting out the cancer?”

“I—” And the knife drops to the ground as Vin steps away from it, buried to the hilt in the dirt. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Habit echoes, mocking. Mocking. Teeth bared and something unrecognizable in the eyes, in the face made up of smudges and empty blurs, purple and pale and bruises and blood. “You can’t. Poor thing, you can’t.” It kneels to pick up the knife. “I really thought you’d figure it out this time. Really thought you’d be willing to do your part. Now you’re just keeping me from doing mine.”

“It doesn’t matter who that helps.” Vin says with his jaw clenched, taking a few steps back. “Killing a child won’t fix anything.”

“It will for that one.” Habit gestures with the knife. “That’s the source. The first and original source. A full-course buffet of fear that’s going to lead our dear old friend to victim after victim after victim, unless you kill him. I thought you humans liked your sacrificial lambs. Would it feel better if I set up an altar for you? Go back a little further than we did, let you call yourself Abraham and name the boy Isaac and maybe you’ll be able to find the fucking balls—”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re a coward.”

“I’d rather be a coward than a murderer.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

The cool air around them doesn’t feel like it’s changed, but there’s a shift in the environment anyways. Vinnie feels lopsided, suddenly, like he can’t hear properly out of one ear, like something’s moving in his periphery. He spits phlegm and blood from his mouth and then clasps a hand over it to cough hard and harsh, breathing out slow and taking a few more steps back from Habit. Further away from the park, too, trying to push himself more into the foliage—

There’s a glimpse of the child.

“World’s end, Vin. Good to know you’re too much of a coward to do the right thing.” Habit snarls at him.

Vinnie coughs again, harder this time, feeling his body shake—his bones rattle. Back up against a tree and he watches the child in the bright and sunny afternoon of the park, watches the boy cling tight to the rungs of the slide and pull himself up. He wobbles somewhat, unsteady, but does not fall to the soft sand underneath him. The little boy hoists himself up to the top of the slide and stands there on the final few rungs, arms wrapping around the bars as he steadies himself and surveys the land before him, still beaming—

Vinnie feels like he’s close to him. Like he’s standing beside the boy and standing in the foliage at the same time, unable to breathe or think clearly, ringing static and empty noise in the breeze around them. He feels cold. Cold enough to worry about the kid, because he’s not dressed for cold weather, and it’s freezing here now—Habit’s eyes on the back of his head. Habit’s hand around his wrist. A knife pressed into his palm, tighter this time, a firm grasp raising it like guidance.

The boy lifts his head against the cool breeze and blinks. He looks up at the clear blue sky above him, a hesitation visible in the small body. A sudden wariness that wasn’t there before, an unnameable discomfort. His attention drifts, to his mother, to the tree line, to the other children in the park, to

to a gathering shadow, in the center of his vision.

Habit’s claws dig into Vinnie’s wrist.

There’s pity here, maybe, pity and sorrow to go along with the fear and the disgust and the grief.

“What’s his name?” Vinnie asks, quietly, his back pressed against the bark of the tree as Habit places the tip of the knife against his stomach. “The—The kid. What’s his name.”

“You care enough to know?”

“Yeah.”

“Cute.” Habit nicks the fabric of his shirt, thinks better of it, yanks it up. Vinnie does not offer any argument, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. The static is building. Like a lightning strike. Like a broken TV. Like what the child is hearing.

“Tell me.”

“His name is Timothy Wright. Hope you’re proud of yourself this time around. You’re getting pretty good at this whole ruining lives thing.”

The knife plunges into his abdomen and it’s not Vinnie that’s screaming, but the boy, Tim, tumbling from the rungs on the top of the slide like a baby bird falling from mother’s nest, screaming at something that only he can see and something that makes the air so much colder around them. And Vin can picture it as blood wells up around the wound in his stomach, as Habit twists the knife in his gut to make the wound worse—That little boy on his back, nearly winded from the fall, crying and screaming and yelling and getting the attention of every parent in the park, his mother rushing to him to gather him in her arms for fear of seeing him hurt.

The child screaming at something that only he can see, inconsolable and terrified and feeding the creation of his mind without understanding, because he can’t understand, and without knowing, because he can’t know. And Vinnie thinks as Habit yanks the weapon out of him and the burning sensation spreads, thinks he prefers this to a death on his hands, thinks he prefers—

“Habit.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Leave him alone.”

“Oh, don’t worry._ I_ won’t touch that one.”


End file.
